dreamszilla

via American Short Fiction https://ift.tt/2ZF6VY1

One year, while we were living in south Texas, I received a box in the mail from my son. The package was about 12X12X12 inches but felt very light. I couldn’t imagine what was in it. The post office had marked it fragile, so I was careful as I removed the tape and slid the lid off. When I moved the box, it sounded like something rustling inside. The gift was wrapped with soft white tissue paper with a tiny piece of tape to hold it together. I carefully eased the tape away from the paper and opened it. In front of me were many different kinds of fall leaves of every shape, color, and size. He had sent the package through priority mail, so the leaves would still have color. Not only were they bright and beautiful, but I could also smell their earthy sweetness of aging. A note read, “Mom, I’m sending a little Fall to you. Enjoy.” The sight and smell were just as gratifying as if I had tasted something I had been craving. And yes, it brought tears to my eyes that my son understood my

Perchance and his band of survivalists stalk the hills trying to find and destroy the long-dead robotic totems of a totalitarian government; by John Ryland. Perchance crawled to the top the frozen hill and peered over the crest. A cold wind swept up from the valley into his face as his eyes fell on the hulking giant in the distance. He shook his head, both glad to have found it, and not at the same time. Although over a mile away, the giant dominated the landscape in the small, flat valley. Standing over fifty feet tall, the robot had an arm span of about twenty feet, at the end of which were two vice-like metal hands. Even standing still, it was an imposing figure. He'd seen many of them before but seeing a new one always left him with a sense of wonder. The machines were built to generally resemble a man in an effort to humanize them, but it didn't work. The giant before him stood on two rusted legs, frozen in time as it towered over the tiny huts that littered the groun

In 1763, an orphaned teenager is put in service of a ship's cook on a cursed voyage; by R. C. Capasso. It was my first and last voyage. In 1763 I was fourteen years old and an orphan. My parents died within hours of each other from cholera. An aging uncle took me in, but after a week he too sickened. His last act committed me as cabin boy to Jacobs, captain of a trading ship. I knew nothing of the sea, but I had no choice. When I boarded, Cook claimed me and thrust a bottle into my hand. The ship owner was expected on board to bid us a profitable voyage. The bottle was for him and the captain. I'd just knocked on the captain's door when boots thudded along the passageway. The door opened, and I slid into the captain's quarters with two men behind me. The owner shook the captain's hand. "The vessel's looking fine!" Captain Jacobs nodded, his eyes going to the man standing at the door. The owner's smile wavered. "Now hear me out b

Moira struggles to reconnect with her blind father, but feels uneasy about him spending time with her son; by Mary Ann McGuigan.  Her son is snuggling against his grandfather on the couch. That's all. Just resting on the old man's shoulder, his forehead against his frayed collar. Michael looks tired, sweaty. There's color high in his cheeks, as if he's just come in from play. The sliding glass door is slightly open, and Moira can hear her father singing to him, something low, soft, painfully familiar. His knee moves up and down in steady cadence with the song. Eyes closed, they seem lost in each other's comfort. She tries to swallow, but it tastes like acid, so she spits into the grass. She turns and walks back to the front of the house, nails pressed into the skin of her palms, and lets herself into Bridget's kitchen. She keeps her voice down, her tone nearly reasonable. "I thought I told you I didn't want him near the boys." Her sister tur

Forty-year-old Dennis connects with a fellow passenger on a cruise ship bound for Cuba in D. Michael Hardy's romance. "It's my birthday," he told her as the ship cruised south through the pitch-black Atlantic, bound for Cuba. It was close to 1am, almost an hour into his fortieth birthday, and he was leaning against the polished wood bar in the Starlight Lounge on deck sixteen, alone on a ship of nearly four thousand. The DJ was spinning an eclectic mix of hip-hop and Seventies funk, and the dance floor was surprisingly full. He'd just ordered his fourth cocktail since dinner when the waif-like girl standing next to him at the bar had asked why he looked so sad. "Aren't birthdays supposed to be happy occasions?" "Depends on your perspective, I guess," he said, sipping his drink. He thought about that number again. Forty . His life was half-over, assuming he lived to the average old age of eighty or so. His father had died young, at a